


Red Lenses

by Nightlock



Category: Borderlands (Video Games)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-12
Updated: 2020-09-12
Packaged: 2021-03-06 16:53:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,092
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26432215
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nightlock/pseuds/Nightlock
Summary: Timothy was supposed to meet up with Jack but it all goes wrong. (Rated for canon-typical themes and violence)
Relationships: Handsome Jack/Timothy Lawrence
Kudos: 1





	Red Lenses

**Author's Note:**

> This was an old drabble from tumblr that has upgraded to a short one-shot. I figured I’d share it since I haven’t written Jackothy in awhile. There was a sketch I drew based on this drabble but I can’t find it on my computer at the moment. This is like an AU but I don't have a name for it.

Everything was starting to double as Timothy’s vision blurred and warped. It was tiring to his already strained eyes, pupils constricted and unfocused. His throat had clenched, tight and dry, as it burned to breathe. If he could call what he was doing breathing. He was taking in and expelling out quick, short breathes frantic and chaotic like a fish out of water. It was whiplash of the lungs and they too were starting to ache and burn with exhaustion. Timothy started to feel dizzy though if it was from the lack of oxygen or just his body starting to give out he wasn’t sure. He felt light headed with foggy thoughts that were large and vague but obstructed any chance of clarity; cottony white thickness sprouting between the trenches of his brain. His vision began to rattle and his world began to churn into puddles of colors bleeding into each other. It was relentlessly whirling around him and he’d have sworn he was moving if his feet weren't planted in place; struck with an indecisiveness to bolt or stay. His logical thoughts whispered for Tim to run but his emotional thoughts screamed for him to stay at the same time; in unison his thoughts were nothing else but static in his head. 

Tim’s vision was still jittery and unfocused and his ears were ringing and it felt like his mind was being cut by sharp, white noise. A knife that was paper thin, red-hot steel and hungry to feast on his sanity. Tim’s face felt hot and tense and his eyes pricked with moist heat. He had to blink a few times to calm the itchy tickle and when he did he felt the start of tears that never shed. He felt like he was going to die. He was going to- 

A sharp, playful whistle pierced through the silence and suddenly the weight in his hand became reality again. It was like Tim was floating listlessly but then the sudden noise had him jump back into his body. He could feel the dark, warm droplets on his face starting to dry and wounds and bruises amongst his body began to heat up and throb although still numb from adrenaline. Tim suddenly felt warmth enclose around his back. It was familiar and comforting and it eased him back into reality opposed to the mental crash he experienced when trying to focus by himself. 

Tim started to feel grounded and safe, but his body turned against him and trembled. A sharp, dry sob was caught in his throat and felt like he could cry but he didn’t. In better words he couldn’t. His eyes burned and itched even more so from suddenly becoming dry. He eased into the warmth behind him just a little bit and he sighed. It was such a weak sound it felt like he could break. This shouldn’t be this way, but it was. Tim bit at his bottom lip, eyes wild as he came off his hit of deliriousness. It wasn’t supposed to happen, it wasn’t- 

“The neck, huh? Nicely done.” 

After that there was a heavy silence. It was heavier than the man’s neck in Tim’s hands or the thick smell of blood that made the alleyway smell worse. Tim made the conscious effort to slightly turn his head and he saw Jack. Of course, it was Jack. His…his employer-to-be when they met in Hyperion’s Hall by pure coincidence. He was…going to meet up with Jack at the rendezvous point to discuss their contract and then someone gave him trouble and-what the hell? Did it matter? Tim’s mind stilled as he stared silently at Jack who was staring down at the lifeless corpse Tim was still attached to with his hands by the unlucky victim’s neck. Jack was impressed too, it was a burly man-hmm probably twice the muscle Tim was, Jack guessed by eyeballing, but the son of a bitch still lost. With his life. It was fascinating as fuck. The poor son of a bitch played a game he couldn’t afford to play _or_ lose. Jack almost wished he wasn’t late just to have been witness to it all up close and personal. Well, that’s what he would have thought if he didn’t see it from security footage he had linked to the app on his phone. 

Jack may have known this was a very dangerous area, especially at this time of night, _and_ he may have chosen this particular rendezvous point on purpose due to said fact _and_ he may have known a Bandit or two usually come along the ruins of the shut down night club, Pandora’s Peak, for their own weird shit concerning skin and pizza and hawks but it wasn’t important. It had nothing to do with what transpired here nor Jack's interest to see if he was spending his money's worth. Also had absolutely nothing to do with the pure entertainment he knew it'd be regardless of what happened. It was all fun. Still, Jack would have enjoyed if he were there in the front row. Nothing like the in-person experience but he’d have another chance. There was always another chance when he was around. He made it an effort to be sure of that. 

Jack glanced over to Tim for but a moment with a glint in his eye. Tim could swear that he saw a hint of red-glaring through the warm cast yellow street lights and haunting glow of purple and pink neon flickering lighting in this dingy, wet alleyway-for that fleeting moment but hadn’t the chance to be sure since Jack was staring back down at Tim's work over his shoulder. Even if the red was an illusion Tim felt the humid, warm air grow cold and he shivered. It was a sudden spike in temperature or Tim was fucking losing control of his senses from being beat shitless. It was like mixing two strange chemicals together and he wasn’t sure what the outcome of that was; if it was dangerous or not. 

“Damn, buttercup, I’m proud of you. You know that?” Jack paused to appreciate the view, “I almost thought this was a mistake-crazy, I know, because me? Make a mistake?-but anyway, it wasn’t. You’re the man for the job, bravo and slow clap.” Jack commented with a tickle of amusement to his voice. He leaned in, his arms lining up with Tim’s-and guided his arms for a proper stance. He was a stickler for proper strangling techniques. It was his M.O after all. He didn’t know Tim long but he knew what he learned was perfect to test out and the results made it all worth the wait. 

“P-proud…?” It came out as a weak whisper though Timothy was shocked that any words left his mouth at all; his own voice sounding foreign to his ears. He killed a man. Sure, this man was a threat to Tim’s life but he’s never done this before. _Ever._ It was weird that Jack’s admission had helped calm Tim’s nerves a little even if they had little history. It had to be because what happened, he told himself, anyone could’ve eased his trauma with some pep talk. Tim tried gathering his thoughts, focus on more important matters. 

Tim remembered trying to make sure he wasn’t lost, checking his phone for directions, when he was snapped out of his thoughts by a guttural yell across the alleyway. A man that was all brawn was charging for Tim and like a skag in headlights he hadn’t registered the start of the assault until knuckle connected with face. Tim unceremoniously licked at the corner of his swollen, bruised mouth at the memory, the taste of blood still strong but starting to crust. Tim was new to the area but he wasn’t naive… he recognized his would-be attacker as one of the crazy ass psychos from the Bandits-a gang that was territorial as they were dangerously unstable thanks to the drugs they smuggled that when abused left a person a shell of who they were or so the rumors go. They based strange ass cults around taking the drug and people just avoided them if they could. Too unpredictable. 

Tim was knocked off his feet and hit the ground-ass first-from the sucker punch, his phone hitting the moist gritty ground with sharp click and crack. Before any of it could process the hellish brute was on Tim, straddling his stomach, pelting his arms-raised for cover-with punches. So many thoughts came rushing in with each jab and Tim could hear someone yelling for the psycho to get off only to realize it was his own voice, foreign from strain and desperation and the rasping laughter from his attacker in the background. Each blow had his defense crumble away bit by bit and he knew it’d be only a matter of minutes before his arms were broken and spent and those knuckles would be breaking his face into bone shards and fleshy mush. He’s just be a dead, unlucky bastard found in the morning with no face and a broken phone and no dignity-probably fed off to street skags since no one cared how or why anyone died in this city-and that made anxiety swell in his chest. 

It felt like a century had gone second when one punch too many had Tim retaliate by taking one arm, shaking from the blows prior, scrounging for something, _anything_ , to fight back with. He felt the slick surface of glass, probably from a broken window or bottle, and with no time for careful tact he picked it up and let the psycho punch into the shard. With the force from am impeding punch it pierced through the psycho’s hand-between forefinger and middle finger knuckles-like a butter knife through warm butter. Tim hadn’t noticed the same could be said wit his hand that was encased around the bottom half of the shard, the grip he needed to keep the shard in his grip meant it slid into his fingers and palm with ease. He hadn’t felt the sharp slicing of his hand in multiple places. 

The psycho pulled back and it was a clean release from the shard that easily severed flesh and sinew. After a ragged cry of agony the rain of punches halted, and Tim took the chance to stab anywhere; a poke at the leg, the side and the gut of the psycho. Glass didn’t go far, slippery from blood and with its smooth yet sharp edges it was hard to get a good grip. The psycho was all muscle too, the wall of abs protecting the shard from piercing into his organs. It was like trying to frantically put a keyhole in a lock to open a door, but it was the wrong key. 

The punches started again but fueled by a newfound rage knocking Tim’s hand clean of the shard continued the assault despite the splitting rip on one hand. Tim could hardly keep up and was hit on his arms, the upper forehead a couple of times and the lower body up to where the psycho sat. Tim had been beaten with one punch too many and without thinking he aimed a punch of his own to the brutish psycho’s groin. It was strong enough and had the lumbering wall of muscle fall off Tim and grab at his aching crotch in pain. It was an animalistic wailing of pain but it wasn’t enough. There was no time for thinking, Tim had scooted himself away from the psycho and scampered about until he found another weapon. Preferable blunt and hard or sharp or both. There’s wasn’t another shard big enough-the original lost somewhere but Tim wasted no time to look for it-nor had Tim had the grip for it anyway. His hand was a bleeding mess and Tim couldn’t tell where blood and flesh began. He had to be quick before that damn psycho recovered and he hadn’t in him to defend anymore. He’d be dead. 

Nothing else stood out amongst the trash and junk in the alleyway except rotting plank of wood that probably fell from one of the boarded windows of the abandoned club. It was enough and with that in mind Tim picked up the worn, damp wood and dragged it over-the sound scrapping against his brain-to the psycho taking a deep breathe to brace himself. The psycho was in fetal position with both large hands over his wounded crotch and when he turned his head to glare up at Tim with manic hunger to kill in his eyes Tim’s reaction was immediate. Taking the plank of wood over his head Tim slammed it down onto the psycho’s head and with the force and solid head of the psycho it broke in half. The psycho fell back to the ground with a groan and Tim mustered all his strength to do it again with the wood he had left, hitting the temple resulting in complete silence afterwards. No groaning psycho or screaming Tim and neither moved; it was just silence. It was almost otherworldly silence that was starting it to get loud in Tim’s ears as the lights from the neon signs, faded and flickering on the old club’s entrance, were witness to it all. Each flicker like Morse code telling the world what transpired like anyone would care. Tim sure as hell didn’t. He was breathing hard through his mouth to try to get as much air as possible but he wasn’t done here. 

Still high on adrenaline Tim's breathe was ragged-mind racing with his blood rushing in his ears- and his body suddenly heavy as every conceivable thought invaded and cluttered his ability to calm down was adding to said weight. He went auto pilot and carelessly threw the broken plank aside before he picked the psycho up by his neck and began to squeeze; thumbs positioned above the Adam’s apple to press it in. To make it break, pop, dislocated or whatever the fuck necks did when strangled, Adam’s apple or not. It didn’t matter he just wanted it to snap enough to kill. Tim was far beyond safe from any further harm now but something under his skin _hungered_ to take it all the way to a more permanent solution. He had to be sure the fucker was _dead_. No second chances, no warning encounters, no mercy, no nothing. Like day ended with night this bastard’s life would end from this attack, it was justified universal logic. It had to be and was the answer to this psycho singling Tim out when he was just lost, attacking him when he was defenseless, wasting his fucking time when he was already late and for beating the shit out of him for no reason than just being in the wrong place at the wrong time. There was justice that had to be served here and it would be. 

It was almost funny. Tim almost laughed as his grip tightened around the neck; the give of the appendage unnatural. Ginger hairs dangled out of place and now in his face in wet strands; what wasn’t in his face cling to his moist skin sticky with his own blood. Tim’s freckled face was gnarled with fury and disgust as he gripped tighter without any kind of hesitation. It was the most confident Tim had ever been with a decision in his entire fucking life. His shoulders and posture was tight and unyielding and he could feel something that was buried deep clawing its way from the pits of his core through his body and surfacing with a horrid roar that Tim felt leave his own mouth. It was all just so unironically hilarious with the warm, unforgiving humidity of the night making everything wet with a moist mist, the psycho’s unconscious with his head hanging back like a sack of rotten fruit and, oh, the _smells _. The fucking grotesque odor of it all penetrated Tim's nose; the slimy residue from the ground-now his own clothes were covered with thanks to the attack-the alley trash and filth among the brick buildings, the filthy psycho’s odor permeating Tim’s senses from the close proximity, and, of course, the blood from both parties involved that seemed like enough to lure a shark: all a disgusting cocktail that was priced expensive-a life. Tim was seeing red, unaware blood was tricking down into his eyes from a gash near the start of his hairline; possibly from the second baggage of manic punches. It was all so quick and slow at the same time-a paradox. When a sickly crack echoed in the alleyway suddenly everything was still and the realization if it all had been blurred with fantasy and reality. Tim had a hard time deciphering what parts were in his head and which actually happened even if Jack knew it all happened.__

__All of this information was still trying to register in Tim’s mind but there was an error. Something malfunctions and his mind kept blue screening. He was a laptop trying to boot at the start up screen but it would then reset without notice. Maybe it was the dim, flickering neon lights; the chipping paint and old, obscene graffiti; the grungy floor or maybe even the questionable cocktail of disgusting smells in the alleyway and now on his clothes from the tussle but none of it added up to be something to take pride in. It was survival mode with a side of justice. Right? _Right?_ _ _

__Tim breathed in deep and when he tried to speak another weak, wet sound left his mouth. Jack was unable to tell if it was a whimper or an unironic chuckle. Didn’t matter to him, he was just appreciating it all. He liked this. To see his new double unhinged and ripping at the seams. He’d remember this all and stored away in a perfect place for later. He coveted moments like this and his mouth pulled into a appreciative smirk. Oh, this one was a keeper._ _

__“Of course, cupcake. You gave ’em the ol’ Handsome Jack touch. You’re learning and I haven’t taught anything yet! I’m sensing a natural here.” Jack spoke with rising enthusiasm that calmed by the end of his sentence but his eyes never looked back up towards Tim. There was a hypnotic magic to seeing the dead eyes of someone whose life was snuffed out in the most intimate of ways. He was too entranced by his double’s handy work. Hah, handy work, Jack took a mental note of that for next time._ _

__“Listen, sweetheart, I’m complimenting you. It doesn’t happen with just anyone.” Jack threw in noticing Tim’s listlessness despite not paying him much mind compared to the lifeless psycho still in Tim’s hold, the grip tighter than before like someone squeezing a stress ball. A quick glance from the corner of his eye and he could see Tim was still dazed with adrenaline and probably some of Jack’s words were muddled or completely missed. Not that Jack would hold it against the kid. This time. Jack grinned almost resting his chin at Tim’s shoulder noticing the bruising around the neck that was blooming from Tim’s grip. Jack whistled again. Already and before rigor mortis had a chance to set in, it was nice. A reef of a true _winner/i >. __ _

___Tim’s eyes fluttered for but a moment-like he was waking from a trances-his eyes following Jack's line of focus and stared down at the dead bandit he never let go of. Tim wasn’t above being under the same spell of lifeless victim he hadn’t the mental composure to release yet but he let his grip loosen just a bit. He was chained to this body-hands the iron ring-and he felt like he should feel something about it. He should but he didn’t. He couldn’t feel _a thing_. He couldn’t feel any resistance, a pulse, or remorse. Nothing. Another wet, shaky breath escaped his mouth and a nervous grin and distress contorted his face. He wanted to laugh or cry or do something, anything-any reaction at all-but he was empty. What felt wild and animalistic was now calm like still water. It was a stark contrast from earlier when he was imbued with fear and rage as he tried to defend himself from this asshole-still in his hands-who thought Tim was an easy mugging or kill or whatever. His focused on his hands gripped around the psycho’s neck again and he could feel how it wasn’t supposed to feel this way; like something was out of place. Something had gone very wrong but that’s what happens when you strangle someone after stabbing didn’t work. There was a sting that started to poke at the wounds in his hand, the blood on the neck completely Tim’s. The relentless stabbing with a stray glass shard had fucked up his hand but he couldn’t let go to add stable type of pressure to stop the bleeding and keep skin in place. Even so, the subtle pain didn’t feel anything worth tending to in the moment. _Tim was numb to everything, even relief even though he should be to realize he came out of that attack alive. He did recognize that he jumped out of death’s claws though, but it just didn’t hit like it probably should have. Maybe he’d catch up with the feeling later. Maybe not. The Bandits were always strung up one the newest drug, slag-an off product of the pure stuff known as Eridium-and it made them fucking invincible it felt like. Tim really was lucky to be alive or so he thought to himself. He was pulled from his headspace when he heard Jack speak again. Time that slowed and became irregular caught up and Tim subtly shook his head. He had to ask Jack to repeat himself and Jack had been annoyed if not so enamored by his double-to-be right now.__ _ _

___“Pay attention, babe.” Jack slowly glided his own hand down to Tim’s trembling wrists and gently squeezed before he tried to guide inexperienced hands, “You see that? You can really let ’em suffer when you hold the neck like that. Just watch the life sink out of their eyes. Let the last thing anyone lucky enough to be under your grip see is that you won and you love it, pumpkin. You’ll always love it.” Jack explained nonchalantly as though he were explaining the instructions to a game. Jack could feel the quivering, tense muscle from Tim-unsure if it was fear or anticipation-and his lips pulled into a telling smirk. He was loving this. It was going to be fun._ _ _

___“Just one thing.” Jack started as he let his guiding hands over Tim’s almost to sooth, “Try to get’em when they’re still conscious next time. You miss a lot otherwise, buttercup. And trust ol’ Handsome Jack when he says it’s _a lot_.” Jack left the better parts of strangulation unsaid like when they can fight back and how he can make it last as long as he wanted. Oh, that wonderful point when the victim has that spark of hope to think they can get away. That spark that is so euphoric to put out as he rips the chance from under ‘em at the perfect moment where hope is at its peak. Artificial hope Jack creates just to see it die out before the victim does. All the simple pleasures of the job, he’d describe it. _ _ _

__It was were simple advice for a not so simple situation. He didn’t know how to feel about it. Tim wanted to be unnerved by it all like a person with normal values would, but the words entered and bounced around in his head as though it were empty and Jack’s advice flooded out what little was left._ _

__“Not a bad first time, huh?” Jack whispered in Tim’s ear taking a hand that had been a guide to a proper strangling grip to the top of Tim’s hot, sticky hand. The blood had begun to dry but there was enough to still feel slippery and warm. It was like a blood pact and Tim may have had an outer body experience because he never remembered nodding, but he did. The streetlight’s unstable lighting was filtering again and when it flickered there were four glints of red light in the second of darkness. Tim hadn’t realized but maybe the red wasn’t blood in his eyes afterall._ _

__

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you all enjoyed this. It’s small but it was fun for me back when I wrote and it was fun again to revisit and clean up. I write on my phone and I do proofread but sorry for any mistakes I may have missed. 
> 
> I guess it's more implied here than a ship but I wrote it with intention of a ship so listed it as such. If you like it or not feel free to share what you think.


End file.
